I went to Monrovia when the lanes
opened up - straight lines up to the
stars and open roadways all out of
town. Everywhere I went I'd never
been before. The sleeve of new
nettles kept poking my arm. They
were dreams, to be savaged by me.
There were five grand buildings on
a street lined with gold : stationary
crosses where the Spaniards kept
praying while I stood idly by.
I professed nothing but time, and
I knelt only when forced. The crowd
was veering, and they moved as one.
I knew then what 'going to Mass'
really meant. That was a Revelation.